


Stale mate.

by Madame_V



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: FTW, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I was listening to sad music, Lestrade-centric, M/M, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 00:18:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3748402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madame_V/pseuds/Madame_V
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Persistence spin-off. Greg ponders about the rain and gets a bit of aid from an unexpected source.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stale mate.

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Persistence.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2264133) by [Madame_V](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madame_V/pseuds/Madame_V). 



> If you really want to understand the implications of this fic, I'm afraid you'll have to read Persistence first! Sorry! At least until chapter Silence, after that everything's peachy, but I really wanted to take things from Greg's standpoint and it's raining and I have the perfect music playlist and- and... :D... Anyway, ever wondered how did Greg deal with Mycroft breaking his heart and his loss? I found my muse in music, as always and just had this vivid image. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy and remember COMMENTS FEED MY GREED FOR SOULS, not really, they just let me know if you think I did alright or not so much. I'd appreciate if you comment.
> 
> Kisses! :*

There's something in rain that makes people feel small. Vulnerable, at peace and, sometimes, oddly understood. The weather can often translate to one's mood, affecting blood pressure, temperature and opening old wounds by bringing back those dreaded memories of long nights when we hid away from heavens as a thunderstorm cracked and rumbled deep within the sky. London was blessed with this weather, looming like an ever present threat at change of season. 

It was one of those nights. Pissing rain was the most accurate way to describe how it poured outside. There were few people in at this late hour in the NSY building it was mostly vacated from bosses. The only souls left were those on call, the office clerk cursing through paperwork and the odd secretary gathering their belongings to end their shifts. And the weather resumed to take the form of how one lone soul in Homicide Division felt. Rather terrible when your only kindred spirit isn't even a person but a climatic phenomenon.

Stretching as he still sat on his desk, next to the cool glass of the window Greg let out a grunt and got up, sighing and looking outside again. Since he had been a child, he had mixed feelings about rain. Soothing when you were feeling cozy, warm and even better if you had a hot cuppa at hand. Often had the power to make a sad song feel sadder. Rain and grey clouds could open old wounds from a better time where people that wasn’t here was still around.

His father had left on a rainy day. His mum had been buried under a clouded sky. But weather was just that, Greg’s doe eyes searched in the heavens faces he couldn’t find and hope he lacked, sighing again in frustration. Well, if it was about rain, it was also uncomfortable as shite to work under it, made a bloody mess out of any half-decent outdoor crime scene and had him sneezing on the verge of a cold more than once after spending an afternoon soaked to the bone, cursing himself for forgetting his umbrella yet again.

‘Not going there’ he thought sighing again and dropping himself on the chair. As the thought of a tall bloke with pristine suits and said prop stepped into his mind, as vividly as that first and only night when they had crossed paths. Perfect moment for Sergeant Peters to get in mumbling angrily and cursing under his breath as he got his coat “'m leavin', Lestrade” he said putting on his overcoat and taking his brolly from the first drawer.

The brunette gave the tall blonde a tired look “Do that, go t'the wife or she's gonna come 'round and fetch y'herself again”

Peters snorted as he straightened his long coat, blushing slightly “No point in me tellin’ you to take your leave early? I'm tired of finding you asleep on the couch, mate” placing his soaked umbrella under his arm and patting for his cigarettes, the older man looked up at Greg with a transparent worry he really couldn't bear, so he started a detailed inspection of the tips of his shoes “Lestrade, go rest, yeah? The files will still be here when you come back” patting Greg's shoulder, catching his attention.

Shrugging he looked up into his mate's blue eyes and said “Yeah, sure. I've to be ready for tomorrow morning. Don't forget we have a match, tell the missus”, the older man chuckled and placed a hand on his stubble.

“Aye, God knows you can't catch a ball for your life.. Go to a pub and find a bird or something” he said on his way out “Do it for us married blokes.”

“With this paycheck? In this city? Slim chance I'll find someone, mate” he lied again. This time it hit him in the chest as they mumbled their goodbyes and silence fell on him. A pang of sour loneliness. To think that two months ago he was regularly texting with this rather interesting, perplexing young lad. He knew that he had been losing Mycroft since day one, but in spite of all his reluctance to become acquaintances and even friends...

A character this Mycroft Holmes, he thought fondly with a small smirk on his lips and hurt in his eyes. 'Don't be dramatic' resounded in his mind, the words didn't have a voice and the owner was a mistery. Jus' someone I'm texting... He let out a breathless laugh feeling helpless in the irony of that innocent thought. Right. Just someone that's eerily clever, ever so enigmatic in his ways and quirks, unique in his speech and manners. 'You are the closest I have ever had to a friend' the memory left him almost breathless and the rain fell loudly on the window, as if complaining that he hadn't shed a tear for the pain it caused. Well, he'd shed plenty for his mum that fateful night her heart stopped beating, taking part of her son's own soul with her.

Justifying himself in the fact that he was coping with loss by indulging in feeling miserable. He toyed with his phone and tossed it over that file, the one that looked up from his desk judging him for being unfocused. 'Bugger off' he thought closing it. Pressing a hand to his face, as if chasing the exhaustion away, Greg set his eyes on the file open on his desk and pulled another picture of the shoes they found in the trash bin, posting it on his 'Wall of Gore' (Or so said Peters, the sod... Just because he worked for another division).

There had to be something wrong, he thought looking at the victims pictures posted on his wall and glancing at the blood-pattern analysis in his hand as he tapped a pen on his lower lip. Mycroft hadn't said much about his personal life in as many words, but he was clearly averse to keeping him around. Then so be it, Greg sighed and as his phone chimed with a text, all his scattered attention came to abrupt focus, feeling his heart beating hard and weighing in his chest in deep disappointment, he answered to his still mourning sister.

Ever the strong one. For his mum and sister, now for his sister alone.

In the very least there was his job, he had three cases pending with DI Danson and Sherlock had solved that last case quickly enough. Sherlock's presence was probably the only proof that someone as Mycroft even existed. He greedily listened with a bit too much attention when Sherlock complained about his brother and even if he felt curiosity pressing to ask about the younger man Greg thought it'd be best to let this failed friendship with Mycroft rest.

So instead of making Sherlock go through questioning, the older man had gone back home, ate, slept and resisted the terrible urge to call the taller man as if he were a teenage boy desperatedly infatuated. In general it was mostly Lestrade asking Sherlock what the hell was he thinking that morning by telling a murderer off during a stake out and Sherlock saying that he wouldn't have made a step forward if he hadn't, then Greg saying it wasn't his decision to make and Sherlock asking if the victim's trousers were still at the morgue, to which Greg's diplomatic answer was tossing the bag of bloodied clothes aiming at his head... Not very mature, yeah... But certainly like them.

"You are still thinking of him" the baritone resounded in the empty office, then Sherlock's shoes clicked on the linoleum floor.

The DS turned to look at the tall brunette looking at the same wall as he was, Greg looked at him and sighed "The janitor" and Sherlock hummed.

"Ah, yes, the boots... Clever" he said with that spark of happiness within his clear eyes.

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose "What do you want?" he said turning to look at Sherlock who was flipping through casefiles “Leave that” he said taking the file and scribbling some notes down on his pad.

"My brother has been pestering me and I thought a case would make my mood pick up" he said picking up a letter opener.

Greg frowned and hummed, trying not to show that the mentions still affected him "'m on m'way out, Sherlock. We don't have anything odd and interesting for you, what did you do with the cold cases?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "They are simple and boring, one is a case of abuse by a parent. The second- Too easy, I cannot believe it was catalogued as a cold case, the evidence was in the retainer. A pubic hair, you must see why I didn't bother going through the third one” the young man kept talking as Greg made his way out “I shall give a statement, for the case in the papers. The Blue Maidens case, I know your boss has it" the DI lifted his eyebrows, as he lifted a cigarette and placed it between his lips. Offering one to the young man “No, John will make my life impossible if I smoke” Greg's eyebrows shot up again and he gave the young man a knowing look, when Sherlock scrunched up his nose and glared at him “Shut up”.

Greg chuckled and took cover under the NSY's ledge and sighing out smoke, he looked up again “Should I ask where John is?”

'Obvious' was all the younger man mumbled under his breath as it left him in cold pale puffs. Date, then. Feeling strange at the thought that of all lonely souls in London, Sherlock was the only kindred spirit to appear with the rain. Soaked like a drowned rat, seeking for distraction. Legal distraction, at least. The officer smiled and sighed smoke “I was thinking of going for a meal," Sherlock's shoulders sunk slightly "maybe we can chat a bit about that case... The boss is under the pressure of the higher ups thumb, guess you could give us a few ideas”.

Sherlock's head snapped to look at him with childlike glee. Unable to help himself, Greg grinned a true smile at the young genius, "Call me an idiot once and you'll lose me" Greg nudged him fondly with his elbow, just as the younger man started to complain "Yeah, yeah, come now, you can fret once you've eaten a decent meal" finally leaving the shelter of the building. Greg casually glanced at a CCTV camera from the parking lot. It had been broken for weeks, moving in strange angles, now set on him briefly before drifting to the Parliament street and on him again, then off again.

Bloody taxes going nowhere it seems, or so he thought. Meanwhile, somewhere in Kensington, there was a man trained enough to hack subtly into CCTV. Someone who normally wouldn't bother. Yet there he sat in the confort of his home, brandy in hand, catching glimpses of what was now virtually lost.


End file.
